The morning heat clung to the street like a held breath. Stalls rattled open, scooters coughed awake, and under a patched umbrella she sat still while the barber mixed the paste in his palm.
She had expected fear. Instead, there was calm.
His hand steadied her chin, not roughly, just enough to say I’ve got you. The first cool sweep touched her scalp, and the weight she’d carried for years—oil, dust, expectations, old mirrors—began to slide away. Each pass was slow and deliberate. Not a performance. A practice.
People drifted by, curious glances softening into nods. Someone paused with a bag of fruit. Someone else smiled, recognizing the moment for what it was. This wasn’t about loss. It was about arrival.
As the last traces disappeared, air met skin for the first time. She felt lighter, taller somehow. Honest. The city noise returned, but it sounded different now, like applause heard from far away.
When the barber stepped back, she reached up, fingertips brushing the smoothness, laughing quietly at herself. No hiding place left. No need for one.
She paid, thanked him, and stood. The sun touched her bare head and she lifted her face to it, feeling seen without being watched. Whatever came next—grief or joy or something unnamed—would meet her as she was.
Clean.
Brave.
Ready.